


Aveline's heavenly delights

by theoracleatlasvegas



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age II
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Humor, turns out isabela /can/ fuck her way through her problems
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-09-22 02:36:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9578750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theoracleatlasvegas/pseuds/theoracleatlasvegas
Summary: Aveline's taken to cooking. She's terrible at it. The gang turns to Isabela for help.





	

**Author's Note:**

> wrote this for a kink meme prompt. title stolen from a gay movie but everything is plagiarism in the postmodern world so fuck it.

"I can't take this anymore. Someone needs to say something," Anders says, emptying Aveline's latest creation from his pockets onto Hawke's floor, in front of her mabari. 

"Hey! Don't feed it to my dog, he might get sick!" she says, "but I agree. Something needs to be done."

The room falls into a tense silence, all eyes on Hawke's face. Bunch of cowards, the lot of them.

"Oh, so when you say someone, you actually mean _me_ ," she crosses her arms. "No, not this time. I'm sitting this one out. Mommy Hawke isn't always going to be there to fix everything."

"No offense, Hawke," Varric says, "but it's usually _us_ helping you clean up _your_ messes."

"Also, please do not refer to yourself as 'Mommy Hawke' ever again. It's creepy, to say the least," Carver says.

"Or please do, I quite like it. Will you spank us if we're naughty?" says Isabela, fullfiling her crude comment quota for the conversation. Hawke rolls her eyes.

"Doesn't matter. I am not telling Aveline we don't like her cooking."

"That's an understatement. I've taken to using the rat piss that passes for whiskey at the Hanged Man as mouthwash," Anders says.

"Either way! I'm not doing it!"

"What about Junior here?"

"What about me?" Carver says, looking at Varric through narrow eyes.

"She already thinks you're kind of a tit. Maybe it won't hurt as much coming from you."

"What makes you think she would believe me? She's been ignoring everything I say ever since we got here!"

"What about the abomination?" Fenris asks, "He's easily the whiniest person in this group."

"After Carver, you mean," Hawke says. Carver just shoots her a dirty look.

"I'm not whiny! The mages' plight--" He stars, but he's interrupted by the usual collective groan that accompanies his rants about mage oppression. "Alright, alright! stop! I still don't see why I should do it. Why don't _you_ do it, Fenris?"

Silence again. Everyone turns to stare at Anders. Fenris raises an eyebrow. 

"Thank you, Anders, but we're looking for actual solutions." Hawke pinches the bridge of her nose, inking her fingers red in the process. "What about Merrill? She's cute. Maybe it won't sound so bad coming from her."

"Oh, I don't know," Merrill says, "Her cooking isn't all that bad, really, after you remove the burnt bits. And the uncooked ones."

"I think it should be Varric," Carver says, petty as ever.

"Watch it, Junior."

"No, really. Aren't you supposed to be the smooth talker here, dwarf?"

"I'll do it," Isabela says, finally. "I'll take one for the team."

"No offense, Rivaini, but we're trying to let her down easy. You'd be the last person she'd want to hear it from."

She hoists herself up onto the table and crosses her legs. "I'm not going to _tell_ her, you idiot. I'm going to _come onto her_ "

"Oh for fuck's sake," Anders says. Hawke puts a sympathethic hand on his shoulder.

"Isabela, we've been through this. You can't fuck your way through all your problems."

"I'm not going to _actually_ sleep with her, silly. She would never. I'm just gonna _tease_ her, pretend her cooking skills are getting me hot and bothered, and she'll be so disgusted she'll never want to cook again! It's brilliant!"

"Do you really think she'll fall for that?" Hawke asks.

"Hawke," Anders says seriously, "This is Isabela we're talking about. I can't even imagine what things she might be into, but I'm guessing if 'cooking' was one of them it would be pretty low on the 'weird fetish' list. No offense."

"None taken," Isabela winks at him.

Hawke sighs, "well, it's not the worst plan we've had."

"We've had a lot of bad plans though," Carver says.

They don't look particularly convinced, but they all mutter in agreement, even merrill though she's looking slightly confused. When that's settled, they set out to eat second dinner, one that actually involves _food_ this time.

*

Next time, Aveline brings her baked goods - or, well, baked bads - to Wicked Grace night at the Hanged Man. Anders orders the largest bottle of whiskey he can get his hands on.

They're some sort of...biscuits, maybe? strangely shaped biscuits. They're overcooked on the outside but on the inside the dough is still raw. There are also bits of eggshell - and egg - scrambled around. The icing on top is somewhat watery, but manages to taste burnt at the same time. 

Aveline looks at them expectantly.

"Well?" She asks, and the look on her face almost makes Hawke feel bad for conspiring behind her back. Almost.

"I think it might be one of your best ones yet!" Hawke says. Sadly, it's actually true. Still, Aveline looks happy with the response.

"You're not eating, Varric?" Aveline asks.

"Not today, Red, I have a stomach ache."

Anders squints at him.

"Oh. Well, you're really missing out." She says.

"Since you're sick," Hawke says, "you probably shouldn't be drinking either, should you?"

Varric looks at her, bewildered, and then back at the ale in front of him. He swallows loudly, and after a moment of hesitation pushes the glass towards Hawke with a heavy sigh.

"I guess not." He says, then he leans into Hawke, and whispers, "Thanks for having my back, Hawke."

"If I'm going down, I'm taking you with me, you filthy traitor," she says back.

"You really _are_ missing out, Varric," says Isabela, scooping some of the gooey, brown-ish icing up with her finger. "Aveline, dear, you really need to give me the recipe. I'm having a _lot_ of ideas about what I could do with this frosting," she then lifts the finger to her mouth, wraps her lips around it, slowly, and sucks. It tastes terrible, but she resists her gag reflex - she's very good at resisting her gag reflex - and looks at Aveline straight in the eye, a devious smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

Fenris turns his face away, trying to look uninterested. Anders chugs down the whiskey straight from the bottle. Carver looks frankly disgusted. Hawke and Merrill just stare, mouth hanging open. Varric remains unphased, still thinking of a way out of his ban from alcohol. Aveline...

Aveline goes bright red. She says nothing, no insults, no aggressive remarks. When Isabela pulls her finger from between her lips with a wet pop, she coughs and looks away. Isabela looks awfully pleased with herself.

Aveline clears her throat. "Right. Well. Shall we play?"

She takes the cards from the centre of the table. The silence is thick. When she's not looking, Hawke gives Isabela a thumbs up.

Aveline starts shuffling, not daring look up from the deck in her hands. Isabela takes a bite of the biscuit and moans. Loudly.

The cards fly right out of Aveline's hands. 

Isabela smirks.

*  
Since the culinary nightmare began, it's become somewhat of a tradition to have dinner once every couple of weeks at Aveline's house. It's unsettling to see her in such a domestic setting, rather than her office at the viscount's keep (where they all sort of assumed she lived, either buried in paperwork or barking orders and fighting thugs in Lowtown. They are also pretty sure she does not sleep).

The current meal is some unidentified orangey mash with bits and pieces of vegetables sprinkled around. As per usual, Aveline gives no explanation as to what they're supposed to be eating.

They pick and nibble at it - except for Varric, who's still committed to his stomach ache story - and they give their praise where they feel it's due. The mushy texture of the food, whatever it is, is rather unfortunate; there's no way to hide or throw away the food without Aveline noticing, or getting their hands sticky. Anders considers sacrificing the pockets of his coat.

As Aveline is about to serve her, Hawke says, "I'm terribly sorry, Aveline, but I don't think I can eat today. I might be coming down with what Varric has."

She gets angry stares from everyone. She stares back, smugly. Varric offers her a high five under the table.

Isabela is still moving forward with her (terrible) plan. She's probably the only person alive who could make eating that orange - now going brown - pulp look attractive. She licks at the spoon in a way that's almost obscene, running her tongue across it slowly, eyes shut and humming in approval. Aveline avoids looking at her through the entire meal.

"Aveline," she says, leaning into her and sticking out her chest, "would you teach me how to cook? I've been told I'm a _very_ good student."

Aveline mutters something, eyes fixed on a stain on the carpet. There's a blush creeping up her neck. Isabela leans in closer. Her boot knocks softly against Aveline's ankle. "We might even have some _fun_ ," she says, and drags her foot smoothly up Aveline's shin.

Aveline positively _jumps_ in her seat. She sputters some excuse and gets up and goes into the kitchen.

(By the time she comes back the plates are empty. One of her plants suspiciously dies a couple days later.)

*  
Aveline sees them off at the door. Hawke mumbles one last apology for not trying her food, but assures her it was probably lovely.

When it's her turn to say goodbye, Isabela leans into Aveline's space, and brings a hand to her face.

"You've got a little something there, big girl," she says, and gently wipes her thumb over the - completely clean - corner of her lip. Aveline flushes, and violently pulls away. With one last smug grin, she turns and walks out.

When they're gone, Aveline leans against the door, and breathes out.

*  
It's been no more than ten minutes when there's a sudden knock at the door. Aveline wipes a hand over her face and gets up from the table.

"I think i might have left one of my daggers here," Isabela says, with a somewhat coy smile. It doesn't suit her.

"How in Andraste's name would you have lost a dagger here?" 

Isabela shrugs. "I carry a lot of them around. Sometimes they just... fall off." There's a pause. "Are you going to let me in?"

With a sigh, Aveline moves from the door.

The dining room is dark, and there are still dirty plates and silverware scattered around. She bends down in the most obvious way possible to check under the table, and Aveline sets off to picking up dishes.

"Do you want me to help you clean up?" She says.

"You? Being helpful?" She scoffs. "Just find what you came for and leave." She's trying to restore the usual balance in their relationship; the mocking and harsh words and the aggression, trying to downplay her nerves, because she _is_ nervous. Isabela can tell, by the way she seems unsure of what to do with her hands, how every so often she runs a hand through her hair, the way she worries her lip between her teeth.

"I can be very helpful," Isabela says, walking up to Aveline, still bent down, gathering the plates from the table. "All you have to do," she gets close, just enough that Aveline can feel her warmth on her back without their bodies actually touching. "...is _ask_ ," she whispers into Aveline's ear, her breath hot against her neck. Aveline turns around, and Isabela traps her with her hands gripping the table at either side of Aveline's hips.

Aveline's expression is fierce. Isabela leans even closer, shifts her gaze from Aveline's eyes to her mouth. She bites her lip and breathes into Aveline's face, and she's waiting for it, ready for the slap that's sure to come, even excited at the prospect (she would be lying if she said she isn't into this). She shuts her eyes in anticipation.

It never comes.

Instead, Aveline, flustered and soemwhat clumsy, brings a hand to Isabela's jaw and closes the distance.

Isabela shivers. For all her roughness and hostile demeanor, Aveline's kisses are surprisingly gentle. Delicate. Something that bleeds through even over the desperation and the hunger. As they pull apart, Aveline tugs at her bottom lip with her teeth. Isabela's head is swimming.

"Alright. I'm giving in. Now prove to me that you're not all talk," she whispers.

Isabela gulps.  
*

The next morning, the gang is having breakfast at the Hanged Man, which is essentially code for "getting hammered at 10 o'clock".

She considers sneaking out before they can spot her, but Hawke beats her to it and calls her over. She hesitates, thinks about making a run for it, but makes her way towards their table.

They look at her expectantly.

"So? How did it go?" Anders asks. "Are we free?"

"Uh," She looks down, "things did not go as I expected they would."

"What does that mean?" Hawke asks, frowning.

"I..."

"Did she hit you?" Merrill asks, sounding rather alarmed.

"What? Why would you--"

"Your neck is bruised," she replies, concerned. "Did you fall? Or bump into something?"

They stare at her in disbelief.

" _You didn't._ " Hawke says, eyes wide. Isabela doesn't reply.

"Fucking hell, Isabela!"

Their table _explodes_ into yells and curses and everything in between, all of them speaking over each other. Carver throws a crumpled wet napkin at her.

"She did it," says Carver, "she actually managed to fuck the problem."

"You realize you dug us into a deeper hole than we already were." Hawke sighs, exhasperated.

"Can we please not talk about _holes_ right now?" Anders says.

"Stop yelling at me!" Isabela says. "It wasn't my fault! How was I supposed to know she would actually want to sleep with me?!"

"I'm confused." Merrill says, "Are we mad at Isabela?"

"I can fix it, alright? I'll just-- I'll come up with something."

"Fantastic, another one of your brilliant plans! Maybe you can leave 'having sex with Aveline' out of this one though." Hawke says.

Merrill gasps. "You had sex with Aveline?"

*

When Aveline shows up, they can't look her in the eye. She looks suspiciously at Isabela. Still, she acts as though nothing's changed, happy to ignore the elephant in the room.

*

"I can't believe you told them." Aveline says, next time. Isabela didn't think there would be a next time. Sleeping with Aveline once had been unconceivable enough. Sleeping with her twice was deep in the realm of the impossible.

"I can't believe you thought I wouldn't." She replies. Aveline just laughs. She stretches a little, blinks at the light that's coming through the window. She shakes off the arm that's draped lazily over her middle.

"Maybe we could start on those cooking lessons later." Aveline says. Isabela sits up and thinks for a moment. She throws her head back and lets out an annoyed groan. "I have to do something. Stay here." She says, and begins gathering her clothes.

Aveline sits up. "What is it?"

"Relax, big girl. I'm not going to steal anything."

"That's not--" She watches as Isabela rushes out of the room and with a deep breath lets herself fall back onto the bed.

*  
She wakes up to Isabela hitting her with a pillow. Hard.

"Come on, big girl, rise and shine!"

"Maker, you're insufferable." She says, rolling over. "What do you want?"

Isabela bounces on the balls of her heels, bites her lip. "I have a confession to make."

Aveline raises an eyebrow.

"Your cooking-- It's terrible."

"Excuse me?"

"It's awful. Worse than awful. It's downright inedible. We throw it in your plants when you're not looking." Aveline looks indignant and ready to argue, but Isabela stops her. "But! I am going to make it up to you. Get up."

"What--"

"For fuck's sake, won't you just trust me this one time?"

Aveline reluctantly gets out of bed, wrapping the sheets around her body, and follows Isabela out of the room and into the dining room.

Her eyes go wide. The table is almost covered in pastries - pies and tarts and honey cakes, crust perfectly golden and smooth, covered in sugar or caramel or cream, things that would be fit at an orlesian ball, things that were unimaginable to make with the ingredients from Aveline's kitchen. The air hangs warm and sweet around them. She turns to Isabela, puzzled.

"Did you--"

"I'll teach you," she crosses her arms, "but if you tell anyone, I _will_ kill you. If word gets out, my reputation is done for."

*

Aveline brings her first attempt at rye bread to Wicked Grace night. She's improved considerably; they're still strangely shaped and somewhat overdone, but at least they're baked evenly, and there are no bits of egg anywhere.

"Maker, Aveline, this is _really_ good," Hawke says, "Isabela, maybe you could give Mother some pointers."

"Huh?" Isabela frowns.

"I have some Dalish recipes, I could give them to you if you want. You might need to learn elvish though," Merrill says.

"What? No! I--"

"I bet all those dirty novels she has are actually hollowed out to keep her oven mitts," Anders joins in.

"If I sleep with you, do I get free breakfast?" Hawke asks.

She sets her cards down and turns to Aveline, feeling utterly betrayed.

"You told them?!"

Aveline smirks. "I can't believe you thought I wouldn't."


End file.
